


Look at 'em sway with it (gettin' so gay with it)

by gothyringwald



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Dancing, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 03:49:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7785643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Why do you ask me to dance?' Illya keeps his tone light, offhand, but his curiosity is sincere. Napoleon has made some odd requests of him in their time working together, but Illya has never been asked to dance by the American before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look at 'em sway with it (gettin' so gay with it)

**Author's Note:**

> I started this when I was stuck on chapter two of _Dirty Dancing: Moscow Nights_ , so I thought I may as well polish it up and post it before I get stuck into chapter three. 
> 
> I guess I'm obsessed with the idea of these two cutie spies dancing with each other. I'm pretty much obsessed with the idea of two men dancing together in general, though. Or anyone dancing, really.
> 
> Beta'd by [dancink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancink) (thanks!)

'Dance with me, Peril.'

Illya doesn't look up from the paperback in his hands, even though Napoleon is hovering over him, blocking the light. 'You're drunk.'

'I've had two drinks!'

'Here, yes,' Illya turns a page, punctuating his words, 'but what about at the club?'

Napoleon huffs, hands on his hips. 'I was sipping. We were working. I am a professional you know.'

Illya turns another page. 'So you keep saying.'

'Fine. I'll just dance alone.' Napoleon crosses to the radiogram and fiddles with the dials until he finds a song he must like, humming along. A punchy brass section blares out of the speakers, and Illya winces. Napoleon turns the volume down and shrugs his jacket off, draping it over a chair. He unbuttons his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves, and loosens his tie. 'Gaby said you weren't much of a dancer.'

Not to be goaded, Illya says, 'I'm surprised she remembers any of that.' He sneaks a look at Napoleon. His eyes are closed, and there's a small smile on his face as he twirls an invisible partner around the floor. Illya's chest does something funny and he clears his throat. 'She's much cuter than you when she dances. And when she's drunk.'

'I like to think I have a different kind of allure than our dear Miss Teller.' Napoleon wiggles his hips in what Illya supposes he thinks is an alluring way – he wouldn't be entirely wrong, Illya muses, heat pooling in his stomach – and Illya hides his smile behind his book as Napoleon turns around to face him again. 'And I'm not drunk.'

There is blissful silence – well, blissful absence of Napoleon's chattering – as Napoleon whirls himself around the room, hips swivelling as he mambos. Warm light, refracted by the chandelier above, plays across Napoleon's face. He looks peaceful and relaxed and it tugs at Illya's heart. His partner gracefully sidesteps the coffee table, eyes still closed, humming softly over the crackling radio.

Illya should have known the peace wouldn't last long. The song ends with a shout from the chorus and Napoleon stops his mambo, shoulders slumping as he turns back around. Illya has to pretend he hasn't been watching the whole time. 

'Ugh, this is boring.' Napoleon flops down next to Illya and plucks his book from his hands.

Illya snatches it back. 'Thought you were dancing.'

'It's no fun alone.' Napoleon pouts. 'I bet you can't even waltz or whatever it is they do behind the iron curtain.'

Illya rolls his eyes. 'Flattery will get you nowhere, Cowboy.'

Illya chances a look at Napoleon, who is inspecting his fingernails. 'I've decided I don't want to dance with you, after all.' The tone of Napoleon's voice is so obviously mock-casual, that Illya has to snort at his partner's blatant attempt at 'reverse psychology'. It's irritatingly endearing, much like everything about Napoleon.

'OK.' Illya blithely turns another page, carrying on the pretense of reading.

'Argh'. Napoleon bangs his head against the back of the sofa, frustration finally cracking his cool facade, and Illya has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

'Please come dance with me, Peril. Just one song.' Napoleon clasps his hands together, under his chin, and bats his eyelashes. Illya looks away, ignoring the way his stomach flips.

'Why do you ask me to dance?' Illya keeps his tone light, offhand, but his curiosity is sincere. Napoleon has made some odd requests of him in their time working together, but Illya has never been asked to dance by the American before. It had caught him off guard and he had almost said yes without thinking – the thought of dancing with Napoleon, pressed close against him, is sorely tempting – but teasing Napoleon is too much fun and, usually, too easy.

Napoleon shifts beside him. 'Because you're here.'

A surprised laugh bubbles out of Illya but he disguises it with a cough. 'Well, in that case...' 

'That didn't come out right.' Napoleon frowns.

'Oh?' Napoleon doesn't clarify how it was meant to come out but Illya isn't offended. Despite what his partner may say, he isn't completely oblivious when it comes to romance and has seen the way Napoleon watches him sometimes when he thinks Illya isn't looking. He wonders if Napoleon ever catches him looking back.

'If you won't dance with me, read me something.' Napoleon pokes at the book.

Illya sighs. He closes his book, places it on the table, and stands. 'OK, get up.' 

Napoleon blinks. 'What?'

'We are dancing.' Napoleon looks too pleased so Illya adds, 'but I pick song. Your taste in music is as terrible as your taste in clothes.'

Napoleon huffs but is still smiling.

'And I lead,' Illya says over his shoulder, turning the dials, the radio hissing and squealing as the frequency changes, to find a better song.

'I can work with that.'

Satisfied with the music, Illya crosses the room back to Napoleon, who is practically bouncing with anticipation, happy to have got his way. If it wasn't so sweet, Illya might find it annoying.

Illya draws Napoleon tight against him, one hand snaking around his waist, the other, clasped with Napoleon's, now resting between their chests. Napoleon's body is warm against Illya's, the mingling scents of cologne and sweat and skin heady, but soothing all the same. Illya's heart swells at the feeling of Napoleon so close.

It's awkward to start with, Napoleon evidently not used to following, stepping forward when he should step back, but eventually they find a rhythm as they move around the room. Illya twirls Napoleon under his raised arm, eliciting a bright laugh from the other man, and pulls him back in, wrapping him up in his arms. They dance like this for a few moments, Napoleon's back pressed against his front, before Illya releases him and they are dancing chest to chest, again.

Napoleon hums sweetly and presses his hips against Illya a little more firmly than he needs to, though Illya can't say he minds. He lets his hand drift lower, to the small of Napoleon's back, rubbing in small circles.

The song ends and segues into another, the tempo slower, and they sway in time, cheek to cheek, the music, soft and sensual, washing over them. Illya can't remember the last time he danced with someone like this, just for the pleasure of it. It feels good, especially so because it is Napoleon dancing with him.

'I've never danced with anyone taller than me,' Napoleon says as he rests his cheek against Illya's shoulder. 'This is quite nice, actually.' 

Illya smiles. 'Do you know what else would be nice?'

'What?'

'If you'd shut up,' Illya says, cheerfully.

Napoleon harrumphs but Illya can feel his face pull into a smile where it rests against his shoulder and they don't talk again as they dance. The silence between them is comfortable, peaceful, and Illya's eyes drift shut.

When the song ends, they pull apart a little, gazes locked. It's a perfect moment to kiss Napoleon, but when Illya leans forward, hands cupping Napoleon's jaw, he finds himself pressing a kiss to Napoleon's forehead, instead. Both men are surprised. Illya lets his hands linger over Napoleon's jaw, but the moment has broken, the time for tender kisses passed, for now.

Illya clears his throat, and steps back. 'Well, that's enough dancing for me, tonight.' He hopes Napoleon will want to dance, again, soon, but feels too awkward to say it out loud.

Napoleon regards him, face inscrutable, though Illya thinks he sees a hint of uncertainty as he says, 'What about tomorrow night, then?'

Illya pretends to consider it, rocking back on his heels, hands slipped into his pockets. 'Hmm, I think I can fit you onto my dance card.'

Napoleon grins, a light flush gracing his cheeks, and the awkwardness between them lifts, anticipation flowing through Illya. He wishes Napoleon good night and turns to leave for bed.

'Oh, and Peril?'

'Hmm?' Illya looks back at Napoleon over his shoulder.

His partner is still grinning crookedly, his eyes twinkling. 'I pick the song next time.'

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, folks!
> 
> Title from [_Papa Loves Mambo_ by Perry Como](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ujB-BZn3C4g). And because it's very important that's also the song Napoleon found on the radio, because the thought of him dancing to it was too good an image to let go.
> 
> I never did decide what Illya chose, though. I was thinking maybe some Dave Brubeck, but I can't figure out what kind of music I think Illya would like. Napoleon seems to me like he'd be keen on the crooners and lounge singers but Illya...I just don't know.
> 
> Edit: turns out I may have subconsciously stored away the fact that Illya is a jazz man in the tv show from when I watched it a few years back. So...Brubeck it is!
> 
> Anyway, don't mind my musical musings!


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